


Bullet Points

by Chifuyu



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1970s, Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Alternative Universe - Organised Crime, Blood and Violence, Blow Jobs, Crimes & Criminals, Don't copy to another site, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Mafia AU, Parental Abuse, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-17 17:03:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16978518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chifuyu/pseuds/Chifuyu
Summary: As the illegitimate and loathed son of infamous crime lord Brendol Hux, Armitage has fought tooth and nail to earn a place at his father’s side in the Irish mob of Hell’s Kitchen. As his father’s personal enforcer there are but a few crimes he hasn’t committed in his 34-years of life, raging from extortion, to intimidation and, of course, murder.So when the simmering hostility between the Irish mob and the Italian mafia, led by an illusive man known only as Snoke, inevitably comes to a boil in the sweltering summer of 1976, Hux is ready to do everything that’s necessary to ensure the mob’s victory.It should have been an easy task: locate the target, kill it and display the body to send a message. What his father failed to mention is that the man known as Kylo Ren is an accomplished hitman himself, with a knack for interrogations and torture.With a mob war raging all around him, Hux finds himself caught up in a cat-and-mouse game he can’t seem to escape. And the longer he is forced to deal with Kylo Ren the harder it is to fight the  fascination he feels in the presence of the infuriating man.





	1. A Day Like Any Other

**Author's Note:**

> Surprise! This is finally it: The first chapter of mine and Coralshard's collaboration for the Kylux Big Bang! And we're so damn excited to finally post this!
> 
> Art by [Coralshards](https://coralshards.tumblr.com),  
> Story by yours truly.
> 
> I had such fun working together with Coralshards and she really brought this story to life with her amazing artwork! Thank you so much for having me!
> 
> Another big thank you to my darling [StoryTellingApe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/storytellingape/profile) and [MsModernity](https://twitter.com/MsModernity) for going over the mess that is my first draft and offering their amazing beta skills!

I

 

The heat is stifling.

Sweat is running down his neck, between his shoulders blades, making his skin stick to the fabric of his dress shirt.  
  
The room's air conditioning is broken, which is little surprising considering that he's camping out in an abandoned hotel that's half burned out and left to go to rack by the authorities after it was bombed by the Italians last year.  
  
They didn't get the man they were after with their crudely constructed explosive charge but it killed enough civilians to ensure that nobody would set foot inside the hotel ever again.  
  
Underneath all the dirt and ash, Hux can still make out the tasteless flower pattern of the wallpaper. It's a wonder people were ever willing to pay for the privilege to spend a night in this flowery nightmare.  
  
Unexpected movement in the periphery of his vision makes him perk up, all thoughts about wallpaper forgotten. It turns out to be nothing but a cooing pigeon, perched up on a window sill.

Hux growls, internally berating himself for his lapse in concentration.He's not here to critique the former owner's interior design choices. He's here to do his job.  
  
The unbearable heat does nothing to make that job easier, neither does the fact that his target is twenty minutes late for his appointment.  
  
His date has arrived already, sitting outside the small café across the derelict hotel.  
  
It's not the most charming spot but the many urban legends that have sprung up in the wake of the bombing have made it a popular spot for people with an interest in such things.  
  
Hux doesn't know if the young woman who is waiting for his target is one of them and he doesn't care, but he can relate to her obvious impatience.  
  
She wouldn't stop playing with the cross on her necklace; the heels of her platform boots clicking on the pavement.  
  
Her father owes Mike Spiller money and she, dutiful daughter that she is, has offered to pay his debts in whichever way Spiller sees fit.  
  
Knowing Spiller’s proclivities, Hux is quite certain she will have to pay them on her back. It's so clichéd, it almost has him laughing.  
  
If the gleam of terror in her eyes, which she tries to hide underneath a veneer of courage, is any indication, then the young girl is fully aware of what she has gotten herself into.  
  
There's a fly buzzing close to Hux's ear. It lands on his cheek, its wings breaking the light like leaded glass.  
  
Hux doesn't blink, doesn't breathe, the finger resting on the trigger of his L42A1 dead still.  
  
Spiller has arrived, finally, after making both Hux and the girl wait in the blistering heat for an unacceptable 27 minutes and 13 seconds.  
  
It's impossible to make out what he's saying from this distance, even through the scope of his rifle, but judging from his body language he at least had the decency to apologise for his tardiness. Not that it would change the outcome of this date in the slightest, but Hux can appreciate the sentiment.  
  
He waits until Spiller has taken a seat, ordered a glass of water and made himself comfortable before pulling the trigger.  
  
Mike Spiller's body crumples, slides off the ice-blue plastic chair and hits the pavement with a dull thud where it comes to lie in an undignified heap. Blood quickly starts to pool around his body, seeping into the fabric of his pinstripe suit.  
  
It was a clean shot, all things considered, but some stray splatters of blood have made their way onto the lady's sundress nonetheless.  
  
Hux feels almost sorry. Blood is notoriously difficult to get out of clothes, as the owner of the laundry shop he regularly frequents is fond of telling him.  
  
There's little he can do about it.  
  
By the time the monstrosity of the situation has registered in the woman's shell-shocked mind, Hux has already packed up.

And by the time the police arrives with blaring sirens, he's long gone.

                         

 

* * *

 

Public executions like the one of Mike Spiller are not his usual modus operandi. He prefers covert operations, where he makes sure to leave no traces behind and no body for the Italians or the police to identify. But he understands the occasional need for such spectacles. From time to time, it's necessary to send a message, to remind the wops that they're still there and still a force to be reckoned with.  
  
The Italians have been a constant thorn in his father's side for as long as Hux can remember. Often, it's also Hux bearing the brunt of Brendol's frustration with them.  
  
Today though, he's pleased.  
  
"Armitage," he greets as Hux enters his study, the gunshot residue still clinging to his fingertips.  
  
"Father." He inclines his head, hiding the smile pulling at his pale lips.  
  
There's little Brendol hates more than being reminded of the blood they share. And it's one of the few joys in Hux's life to do so whenever he believes he can get away with it.  
  
Today is such a day.  
  
He has performed admirably and not even Brendol can contest that, though he would never sink so low as to openly acknowledge it. He’s satisfied, at least. Which is the only reason Hux has dared to pour salt into the open wound that is his continued existence, at all.  
  
"I take it the news has spread already?" Hux asks, indicating the running radio on the office desk with a nod.  
  
"It has. The café is swarming with more press than police," a voice behind Brendol says.

So Brendol is not alone. But he hardly is these days, obsessed with the idea that the Italian mafia is out to get him. He's not entirely wrong but Hux is positive it won't be the Italian mob cutting his head off his shoulders one day.

Behind him stands Phasma, Brendol's bodyguard, dressed in a silver-grey suit perfectly tailored to her broad figure. Her face is hidden by a plain mask, as usual, her blond hair is cut short.

She doesn't acknowledge Hux's presence but he knows she's watching every single step of his, always vigilant.

Hux respects her; her ruthlessness and deadly competency, her sophisticated sense of style.

Not like Cardinal.

The man wears a bright red suit that is too loose at the waist and too tight across the shoulders. His piggish eyes watch him carefully and he straightens when Hux brushes past him, probably barely resisting the urge to salute.

A mindless, bovine excuse of a man, still believing in such things as loyalty and honour among thieves, every ability at critical thinking wiped out by years of conditioning in the military.

"Damn reporters," Brendol huffs, sharing Cardinal's sentiment. "The body wasn't even cold yet and the place was already crawling with them. We might get a nice picture of Mike Spiller and the hole in his head in tomorrow's morning paper."

"Which is exactly what we wanted, isn't it? Send a visible message to the wops that we won't tolerate their interferences any longer," Cardinal says, throwing a look around the room, cleary waiting for them to voice their agreement.

Hux refuses to give him the satisfaction.

"Spiller thought he could get away with doing business on our turf but he was just one man. The Italians will simply claim that he acted on his own, while continuing to try and seize control in secret," he says, arms crossed over his chest, pointedly ignoring Cardinal's indignant gasping for air.

"He’s right," Phasma interjects. "Just last week they tried to get their men in on the contractor's deal for the new convention center at Eleventh Avenue.”

Brendol spits in disgust and though the gestures strikes Hux as incredibly unsophisticated he does agree with the general sentiment his father is expressing.

"They're growing too bold. It's time to set a warning example," Hux says.

"How are we supposed to do that? Our recent losses have been too great to attempt any major retribution."

Cardinal's protest comes at nobody's surprise. In Hux's opinion, Cardinal's relationship with the lower ranks has always been too close, too paternal and as a result, he has become prone to making mistakes, making decisions solely based on his emotions rather than on rationality.

He wants to protect their people rather than use them as the army they are.

There will always be casualties. As a veteran, Hux would have expected Cardinal to know that.

"I haven't decided," Hux says, refusing to meet Cardinal's accusing gaze. "But I won't sit idly by while the Italians overtake our city either."

"Enough already," Brendol's rough voice cuts through their squabbling like a butcher's knife. "Phasma, Cardinal, I wish to speak to Armitage alone."

This doesn't bode well for Hux. Private conversations with his father are rare and usually only occur when Brendol wishes to task him with a particularly unpleasant assignment.

Ever his father's obedient servant, Cardinal leaves without another word. Phasma doesn't linger much longer either but Hux could have sworn she inclined his head in sympathy on her way out.

Hux keeps his gaze firmly fixed on his father, anxiously waiting for him to speak up.

"You are aware of the fragility of our situation," he finally says after lightening one of the Cuban cigars he favours and taking a deep drag.

It's wasn't posed as a question and so Hux refrains from replying.

"Five men in the last week alone. Blown to pieces or burned to bits. And we keep letting the wops get away with it," Brendol laments, chewing on the blunt of his cigar, habit that never fails to fill Hux with disgust.

But he can understand Brendol's frustration, shares it even to an extent. Whoever keeps murdering their men is good at their job.

Despite the flashy nature of their kills—which Hux, who prides himself on his discretion, is almost personally offended by—they have yet to leave any usable traces.

No matter how big a bounty Brendol put on the Italian bloodhound’s head, and no matter how many fingers he already broke in hopes of extracting intel, the identity of the elusive killer remains a mystery.

Which lends itself to all kinds of baseless rumour. Hux has heard everything from the hitman being an ex-Vietnam veteran to them being an actual demon, summoned from the deepest pits of hell by Snoke himself.

Whoever they are, they have been a constant and persistent thorn in his father's side for these last few weeks.

Their numbers have always been limited but if they cannot put an end to the Ghost's—as they've been so aptly named by the press—antics, then there soon won't be an Irish mob left over for Brendol to rule.

"We can't let this continue," Brendol says. "I want you to put an end to it."

Not a muscle in Hux’s face moves as he takes in his father’s words.

"And how exactly am I supposed to do that?" he asks.

He stumbles backwards, one step, then another, before he catches himself and straightens again, his cheek burning from where the back of Brendol's hand has connected with it. Blood fills his mouth, sickenly sweet. He swallows it without hesitation.

"Watch your tongue, Armitage," Brendol growls.

Hux lowers his head in a half-hearted apology.

"Forgive me, I spoke out of turn."

Brendol grunts and shakes his wrist.

"We finally have a lead on the Ghost. According to my sources he belongs to the Italian mafia but he's not Italian himself."

Male then, and part of Snoke's group, Hux thinks, storing those tidbits of information away for later use.

"He must be a fairly new addition then. We have only had issues with him for the last three weeks."  
  
Brendol throws him a look. He doesn't like it when Hux talks too much, every word out of his mouth a personal affront.  
  
"He's American, as far as we know, and he likes to frequent Maz's pub. Goes by the name Kylo Ren. I want you to find him and get rid of him."  
  
Hux curls a brow in question.  
  
Maz Kanata's bar _Stranger’s Fortune_ , nestled in a corner between 9th Avenue and West 45th Street, is neutral ground. A place to unwind and relax, far away from the violent daily dealings of the mob. A place where business is left at the doors, together with the guns and switchblades.  
  
"How reliable is that source of yours? Can we trust them?"  
  
Brendol growls, his hand twitching and Hux automatically tenses as he prepares for another hit that, luckily, never comes.  
  
"That's none of your concern. Now leave and do as you've been told."  
  
Not daring to provoke his father any further, Hux inclines his head and turns away.  
  
"And Armitage?"

Hux halts, throwing a look over his shoulder to meet his father's cold eyes.

"Don't disappoint me."

* * *

 

If one were to ask Hux which skill he believes is the most vital for a hitman he would have told them it is patience.  
  
As it turns out Kylo Ren is—despite the many rumours surrounding his person—extremely hard to find.  
  
So far Hux has been unable to unearth any useful information pertaining to Ren. No home address, no family, no secret sweetheart. Not even an insurance number.  
  
All things considered, Hux has doubts that this man, this Kylo Ren, even exists. The outrageous and numerous tales Maz's patrons tell each other when the night gets long and the alcohol flows too freely can hardly be taken as proof for Kylo Ren's existence. After six consecutive nights spent at the pub, Hux is sure he has heard them all.  
  
He's the illegitimate son of Snoke and a prostitute, some say. Others are convinced he’s related to the infamous Han Solo, possibly the most successful smuggler the US has ever seen, now branded a traitor for renouncing his life of crime and marrying Senator Organa.  
  
Personally, Hux thinks it's all utter nonsense. Kylo Ren is a hitman with a knack for torture, if the kills attributed to him are anything to go by, but not some kind of supernatural being. More importantly though, he's starting to get on Hux's nerves with how difficult it is to track him down.  
  
"This is your fourth coffee."  
  
Hux looks up and is met with the bespectacled gaze of Maz Kanata.  
  
She's tiny, her hands wiry from constantly lifting mugs of beer almost as tall as herself, with a razor-sharp mind entirely immune to bullshit.  
  
Hux is quite fond of her.  
  
He pulls the cup that has been unceremoniously dumped on his table a little closer, breathing in the comforting smell of burned coffee beans and artificial sweetener.  
  
"Your concern for my caffeine intake is heartwarming, but I assure you I can handle it."  
  
"Pah!" She clicks her tongue. "As if I'd ever care for your health. You're drinking coffee in a damn bar. You’re practically asking for trouble. So what are you up to now?"

Taking a careful sip of his scalding hot coffee, Hux takes his sweet time contemplating his answer. 

Maz knows what he's doing for a living so there’s no point in lying to her. On the contrary, some rare and carefully measured truth might help him out in the long run, might even be worth the risk of her selling the information that Armitage Hux came here looking for Kylo Ren to somebody else.

He sets his cup down with a dull thud, grieving the lack of a saucer for a brief moment before he redirects his attention back to Maz.

"I'm looking for someone," he admits.

She pushes her huge glasses up her nose and inches closer, forcing Hux to pick up his cup again to prevent her too long eyeglass cords from taking an involuntary dive into his coffee.

"You're always looking for someone."

Granted, that's true. He wouldn't have set foot in this place if not in hopes of getting some intel on Kylo Ren that he can't get anywhere else.

"This time, I'm looking for someone particularly obtuse,"  he says while drinking his coffee with pointed nonchalance.

It tastes like tar that’s slowly running down his throat and he has to suppress a disgusted shudder. Better not to insult Maz and her questionable culinary skills.

If she notices his discomfort then she’s kind enough not to comment on it.

"I need a name, Starkiller."

Hux scrunches up his nose at the unfortunate nickname.

The twice-forsaken media had given him that name after an assignment that ended with half a dozen of the most prominent members of the Italian mafia dead. The stars of the criminal underworld.

Hux considers the name in bad taste. He's a skilled and dedicated marksman, not some kind of hitman popstar.

Unfortunately, Maz doesn't give a rat's ass if he likes the moniker or not.

"Kylo Ren," he says, making sure to keep his voice to a low whisper. Not that anybody in here could have heard him with the current noise level, not even if he had shouted the name at the top of his lungs.

Maz’s tiny eyes gleam with recognition and then become even smaller as he narrows them in suspicion.

"That's not a man you want to meet," she says, her golden hoop earrings clinking as she shakes her head.

Hux is not deterred by her cryptic warning.

"Perhaps, but he’s the man I need to find. So what can you tell me?”

She eyes him with open disapproval, her serving tray tugged tightly under one arm while she uses her free hand to adjust her thick-rimmed glasses.

"Not much. He comes in from time to time. Always orders the same thing too. A gallon of iced sweet tea and fries to go with it."

Hux raises one immaculate eyebrow.

"Sweet tea and fries? This Kylo Ren doesn’t happen to be a 12-year old trapped inside the body of a grown man, by any chance?" he asks, chuckling at his own joke.

Maz doesn't share his amusement.

"You're one to talk, with your coffee."

Hux shrugs. "Fair point. You said he comes here from time to time? When was the last?"

"You're a nosy little thing, you know that?" Maz laments, still not answering his question.

"Perhaps," Hux allows, "but you know I always make it worth your while. A favour for a favour."

Hux isn't in the habit of paying for intel he could very well gather on his own but his father isn't a patient man and Maz knows everything about everyone, so he's willing to make an exception just this once to save himself some valuable time.

The offer obviously intrigues Maz. A favour from a man like him, with ties to one of the most influential families in this city, is worth far more than simple money. All he asks for in return is a place and a time.

Maz would be a terrible business woman if she'd let this opportunity slip.

Luckily for Hux, she’s not.

"Monday," she huffs. "Usually around two or three in the morning. Hope you're not too keen on getting your beauty sleep."

"Hilarious," Hux says dryly and entirely straight-faced, causing Maz to break out into a hearty bark that must constitute as laughter in her world.

"See you next Monday, Starkiller."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Feel free to scream at us in the comments!


	2. A Peculiar Face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You're skinnier than I thought."
> 
> Hux jumps in his seat, his hand instinctively reaching for the small blade hidden inside his boot.
> 
> "I wouldn't do that if I were you. Maz doesn't like it when people smuggle weapons in here."
> 
> Hux's hand stills on his thigh and he stares at the man who had the gall to sit down across him, seemingly materializing out of nowhere.
> 
> It's a rather peculiar face looking back at him, entirely unbothered by Hux's cutting glare. A face Hux would remember had he seen it before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your kind words on the first chapter!
> 
> We're so happy to hear you're all enjoying this little collab!
> 
> Art as usual by the lovely [Coralshards](https://coralshards.tumblr.com)  
> Check out her tumblr!

II

 

Hux hasn't been idle over the course of the weekend.

He has his own personal network of informants, which is usually rather effective but this time their efforts had been in vain. His people could unearth nothing of vital importance and so Hux had to resign himself to other, messier work, but ultimately more rewarding than the frustrating hunt for Kylo Ren.

The adrenaline from his kill is still surging in his veins when he returns to his apartment and takes a well-deserved shower, scraping dust and dirt off his sensitive skin with a rough sponge.

It's only one more hour until two, not much but enough to get presentable and call himself a cab.

The driver, who goes by the name of Mitaka, knows him already, is familiar with Hux's peculiarities and, if Hux may say so, somewhat fond of him. He will wait outside Maz's for as long as it takes Hux to conclude his business and then drive him back to his apartment, no questions asked.

The moment he sets foot inside the bar, Maz's eyes are on him. She's barely tall enough to peek over the bar counter but that doesn't make her gaze any less piercing.

Hux returns it without blinking.

Considering the late hour, the place is surprisingly crowded. Well, organised crime is hardly comparable to a regular 9-to-5 job. Hux makes his way past inebriated men and sharp-looking women just waiting for any of the drunkards to make one false  move.

His table in the darkest corner of the taproom is surprisingly unoccupied. Hux has a feeling he has to thank Maz for that.

It takes some time, but then she trots over, putting his usual cup of coffee in front of him before leaning in close, propped up on the tabletop.

"Over-punctual as always," she greets, ignoring his incredulously raised eyebrow.

"You gave me a time and here I am. I fail to see the issue," Hux argues, blowing over his scalding hot coffee.

"I told you he usually comes in between two and three," she shoots back but is quick to make amends. "I'm not here to argue with you, Hux. I have a business to run, after all. I'm just here to give you a fair warning. You weren't half as subtle as you think you were."

Before he can ask what Maz means by that, she has already already gotten up, impatiently waving off a customer at another table who has been crying for her to bring him another beer for the duration of their hushed conversation.

Hux finds himself alone once more, looking after Maz's retreating form while pondering her parting words.

"You're skinnier than I thought."

Hux jumps in his seat, his hand instinctively reaching for the small blade hidden inside his boot.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you. Maz doesn't like it when people smuggle weapons in here."

Hux's hand stills on his thigh and he stares at the man who had the gall to sit down across him, seemingly materializing out of nowhere.

It's a rather peculiar face looking back at him, entirely unbothered by Hux's cutting glare. A face Hux would remember had he seen it before.

It's dominated by a long nose, just on the wrong side of being too big, with deep eyes framed by a thick fan of lashes and a full mouth currently pulled into a frown.

Not a face one would consider traditionally attractive but intriguing nonetheless.

The man is armed, just as Hux. The switchblade may be well hidden underneath the leather jacket he's wearing, strapped to the inner side of his upper arm, but Hux isn't a professional hitman for nothing.

Takes one to know one.

Hux doesn't bother to call him out on his hypocrisy, though he certainly makes his displeasure over being harrassed like that known in other ways.

"I can't remember having invited you to sit with me," he says in the haughtiest voice he can muster.

His stinging voice and cold gaze usually take care of even the most obtuse of man trying to engage him in unwanted conversation.

"Interesting," the stranger says, giving no indication that he has understood Hux's words as the obvious dismissal they were. "Because Maz said you were looking for me."

Hux eyes widen involuntarily, his mouth falling open before he can regain control over his face and closes it again with a resounding click.

_Damn you, Maz._

"You're Kylo Ren."

Not at all what Hux had expected, with his irritatingly delicate face and too broad shoulders.

"What do you want from me?" Ren asks.

Hux bristles. How rude.

"What did Maz tell you?"

He knows he has to tread carefully. He may be an excellent marksman and a passable combatant when the situation requires it, but he's not so arrogant as to think he could overcome a man like Kylo Ren in close combat should it come to it.

"I didn't tell him anything," Maz quips up, seemingly materialising out of thin air next to the table, balancing a tumbler of iced tea and a tower of fries shovelled on a too small plate.

She puts both down in front of Ren, rolling her eyes in disapproval when the man wouldn't even deign to look at her, let alone thank her for it.

"You two behave yourselves," she says before turning on her heels, though not without throwing a last warning glare at Ren that makes Hux suspect that it wouldn't be the first time if Ren did the exact opposite of behaving.

Once she's out of earshot, Hux redirects his attention back to Ren.

"I'm here on behalf of Brendol Hux. We're interested in working with you and would like to employ your unique talents."

It's not necessarily a lie. Brendol is indeed interested in Ren. Particularly in his imminent passing.

"I don't care."

It's said with such effortless finality, Hux finds himself momentarily speechless. Even if his offer wasn't a genuine one, no hitman of Ren's caliber should disregard it with so little consideration.

He's either unusually loyal to Snoke or incredibly stupid, perhaps a combination of both.

"Surely Snoke can't pay so well that you wouldn't even consider a better offer?" he asks, once he has recovered from the initial shock.

Ren doesn't answer, not immediately at least. He's too preoccupied with his fries, which he practically smothers in mayonnaise instead of ketchup, resulting in a revolting mess that has Hux nearly gagging.

"You think money interests me," Ren says after an uncomfortably long silence, only broken up by the crunching sound of the fries that he breaks in half before he dunks them into more condiment. "You're wrong."

"What interests you then?" Hux shoots back, trying and failing to overlook Ren's lacking table manners.

Momentarily interrupting the ongoing massacre of his fries, Ren looks up, his eyes alight with an emotion Hux can't quite place.

"Power," he says, just when Hux is about to bury all hope that he'll ever get a clear answer to his question.

"We can give you power," Hux is quick to reply, intrigued despite himself.

And Ren? He chuckles. A deep, amused sound that makes the hairs on the back of Hux's neck stand up.

"Is that why you're still working for him? Because you hope that, one day, daddy's empire will be yours? Is that why you let him treat you like dirt underneath his fingernails?"

Hux's blood runs cold.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he growls, fingers twitching with the urge to reach for his knife and cut Ren's smirking mouth open from ear to ear. Might as well kill him right here and now. Maz and her rules be damned.

"I think you know exactly what I'm talking about, Armitage Hux, bastard son of Brendol Hux."

Hux reaches lower, down his thigh where his switchblade is hidden inside his boot, but Ren is faster.

The hand curling around his wrist is large and warm, Ren's hold feeling like a vice. The sheer physical strength of it terrifying.  
  
For the casual onlooker it might look like nothing more than a conversation between friends, if it weren't for the expression of intense loathing marring Hux's pale face.  
  
"Now is that how you treat a potential employee?" Ren asks, grip unyielding despite the playful lilt in his voice.  
  
"You made it abundantly clear that you're not interested in anything I have to offer."  
  
"I didn't say that," Ren argues. "Just that I'm not interested in working for money. Though I’m curious to know what Brendol Hux needs a hitman for when he has you, inferior as your methods are."  
  
"Inferior?" Hux snaps. "If you think I’ll sit here and let a second rate assassin who doesn't know how to cover his tracks any other way than by drowning a scene in blood, question my methods then you’re sorely mistaken."  
  
"So you do possess a backbone after all. What a surprise."  
  
The grip around his wrist loosens gradually, as if Ren is not quite convinced yet that Hux won't try and shank him after all. Not an entirely baseless fear, but Hux stays put.  
  
"I also know how to cut one out of a man while he's still alive," Hux says, the biting undertone in his voice entirely wasted on the likes of Ren. His thinly-veiled and admittedly inelegant threat goes ignored.  
  
Without deigning him another glance, Kylo Ren stands from his seat, not a single fry left on his plate, the tumbler of sweet tea empty apart from a few melting pieces of ice.  
  
"I will think on your offer. Maybe you’ll hear from me. Probably not."  
  
And just like that, he's gone again, leaving Hux and his quickly cooling coffee behind.  
  
"Told you, you weren't subtle," Maz pipes up, materialising out of nowhere for a second time to pick up the dirty dishes Ren had left behind.  
  
Hux is in no mood for her condescension.  
  
"You told him I was looking for him and then set me up," he accuses.  
  
She isn't the least bit fazed.  
  
"You're being ridiculous, Red. He recognised you when he came in; not many people in the business look like you. Asked me straight up what you're here for. I didn't see the point in lying to him."  
  
It's probably true what she's saying. He's not so naive as to believe that he doesn't hold a certain reputation and when he first asked Maz about Kylo Ren, he was fully prepared for her to sell him out. Just not to the man himself.  
  
"Well," he amends, stirring his cold coffee, "for whatever it's worth, you were right about one thing."  
  
She raises a thin brow, wordlessly prompting him to continue.

"I really didn't like meeting him."  
  
"Told you," she huffs, a razorsharp smile playing around her lips. "Also, you're gonna pay for his fries and tea. Nobody's gonna skip out on a bill in my bar."

 

* * *

 

                

 

It's rare for Hux to be caught up in such a predicament. Usually, his meticulousness and intense preparation make his jobs downright predictable.  
  
All the more frustrating is it then to find himself in such an unfortunate situation, despite all the precautions he’s taken, without his beloved rifle, surrounded by a mob of angry Italians with only a switchblade for a weapon.  
  
The magazine of the handgun he carries with him as a last resort is empty, every single bullet buried deep in a man's heart. But three more are still standing and slowly closing in on him.  
  
His target, a semi-important mobster responsible for smuggling moderate amounts of cocaine from Columbia, was supposed to be accompanied by a pair of bodyguards at best, not a small army ready to throw their lives away at a chance to earn some street credit by killing the Starkiller himself.  
  
Hux had planned it all so carefully: set up an alleged drug deal in one of the many abandoned factories disfiguring New York’s cityscape. He had established contact over the phone, with a fake name and accent, offering 100 pounds of cocaine for a price so low it instantly outed him as a beginner in the colourful world of the drug trade.  
  
If Maurice Bono was half the businessman Hux believed him to be then he wouldn't let such an offer go to waste.  
  
He didn't.  
  
He took Hux up on the offer, agreed to meet at the location and was dead within minutes. It all went according to plan. Right up to the moment it didn’t anymore.  
  
Bono’s demise (he died with a bullet between his eyes and so did his two bodyguards) was carefully planned.  
  
The dozen men who stormed into the factory with their guns drawn while Hux was busy scrubbing blood off the floor and stuffing Bono’s neatly dissected body into a waterproof plastic bag, on the other hand were not.  
  
They weren't part of a back-up team Bono had stationed around the factory in case things went south, judging from their shocked expression at seeing the mutilated body of their former employer. They had arrived far too late for that anyway, meaning that something or somebody else must have tipped them off.  
  
Hux will figure out who’s responsible for his current predicament as soon as he's not in imminent danger of dying a rather undignified death at the hands of some amateurs.  
  
The few remaining men he hasn’t managed to kill immediately, are all young and obviously inexperienced, fresh blood trying to make a name for themselves in the criminal underworld of New York City, no doubt.  
  
Absolutely harmless on their own but significantly more dangerous in a group.  
  
Hux huffs, blowing a strand of hair that has come loose out of his eyes.  
  
They have yet to realise that he's out of ammunition. Their ignorance is the only thing keeping him alive at the moment. As soon as it has caught up with them, Hux is a dead man. Which means he has to get a move on if he values his life.  
  
Taking a deep breath, he shifts closer to the edge of the plywood box filled with rusty refrigerator shells currently doubling as his cover. He cranes his neck, assessing his surroundings.  
  
There's not much to see. Bono’s body, or what’s left of it, is lying abandoned in the middle of the hall, partially rolled up in plastic wrap, like a particularly lazy Christmas present. The remains of his bodyguards Hux has already packed into neat, little plastic bags, ready to be fed to the numerous stray dogs roaming the streets of Hell’s Kitchen.  
  
Surrounding them are the bodies of six of the unexpected intruders Hux had already felled, brass scattered all around them. Six down, six more to go.

Hand-to-hand combat is not his forte, he has no illusions about that. He tends to avoid such close encounters if possible, but that doesn't mean he's helpless without his sniper rifle.

Sneaking past the many crates and abandoned machinery, he makes his way through the facility on silent feet. He has taken off his shoes—beautiful Oxfords that he had polished to a shine just this morning—and is now walking on his bare socks. The shoes he has grudgingly left behind.

His adversaries weren't so clever. He can hear the click clack of their franting pacing echoing through the hall, though they're smart enough not to call out to each other.

Hux comes to a slow halt at another corner and strains his ears. There's the unmistakable sound of somebody fiddling with a gun, pulling the trigger and releasing it again. And the air is heavy with the stench of sweat and fear.

Hux doesn't hesitate.

Knife in hand, Hux rounds the corner, grabs the unsuspecting man standing there and pulls him into the tightest headlock he can manages. The ensuing struggle is short-lived, much to Hux’s relief and the man gets no opportunity to call for help when Hux presses down onto his larynx while sliding his blade between the man’s rib cage.

It's fascinating, even after all these years, to watch a man die. He doesn't cry out, doesn't scream. He simply collapses, legs giving out underneath him. Hux doesn't bother to try and hold him up, simply lets the body drop to the ground and the last sound the man makes is a wheezing gasp, as if the reality of his death hasn't yet caught up with him, before he falls silent.

It's none of Hux's concerns. He wrangles the gun out of the man's quickly slackening grip and takes a look at the magazine. Almost empty, barely enough to take out the rest of the men who are after him. He might need to improvise.

The weight of the gun in his hands is unfamiliar but not unwelcome. Armed like this he should be able to get rid of the remaining men.

The first gunshot kills a boy not much older than sixteen, tragically young, but Hux has no time to contemplate which of the many possible reasons could have forced a child like that into a life of crime.

All that noise must have alarmed the remaining four men and Hux won’t be found standing over a still warm corpse, pondering the unfairness of life like a bloody amateur. Momentarily throwing all caution to the wind, he runs. Around the corner. Past more crates. Up a rusty flight of stairs.

Another gunshot almost makes him stumble and, running on adrenaline and pure instinct, he ducks, turns and pulls the trigger.

The man falls with a dull thud, hit right between the eyes. It was a lucky shot, even for a seasoned shooter like him and it means he has only three more men to worry about.

Crouched low, he makes his way along the railing, falling to his knees behind a half derelict control panel that once upon a time must have been used to navigate the heavy loading cranes of the factory.

There's only one way up: the same one Hux had taken and if the two mobsters are still determined to have him eat lead then they'll have to use the stairs.

Another bullet embeds itself in the control panel next to Hux's head and he hisses, pressing closer to the rough metal for more cover.

It seems they haven’t wasted any time mourning their comrades and when Hux dares to look, one of the mobsters has already made it halfway up the stairs. Where the other might be, Hux can’t tell.

The man isn’t a particularly skilled shot but every dog has his day and the closer he gets the bigger are the chances that one of his shots finds its mark.

Hux has to kill him first.

Growling, he looks around, frantically searching for something he could use until his eyes land on something that looks like a broken pipe, lying abandoned only a few feet away from him.

Hux waits until he can hear the man's steps on the rusty stairs again and then lunges for the pipe, grabbing it in one hand and then turning around and throwing it in the man’s general direction with as much force as he can muster.

It misses the man by a margin but it's enough to serve as a distraction. Hux uses that moment of brief confusion as the man stares at the piece of metal rolling down the stairs to make his shot.

The heavy body rolls down the stairs, the racket it causes echoing through the entire hall before it lands on the concrete floor with a sickening crunch. Hux cringes. What a mess.

Silence settles and Hux waits, huddled up behind the control panel, but no other mobster comes after him.

It's possible the last of the men has come to the conclusion that this assignment isn’t worth his life after all and fled, though Hux hardly ever is so lucky.

Deciding that there's no point in hiding any longer, Hux gets up, slowly descends down the stairs and takes the magazine from the crumbled heap on the floor that was once a human being.

He has just put his Oxfords back on and picked up his rifle—lying involuntarily abandoned among the bodies of Bono and the others—when he hears it: a soft exhale and the click of a switchblade.

He whirls around, gun in hand and comes face to face with Kylo Ren.

Dressed in all black, with heavy combat boots reaching up to his calves and a turtleneck straining across his chest, Kylo Ren makes an impressive sight. Behind him, the last of Hux's attackers lies in a puddle of his own blood, taking his last gurgling breath before he falls silent.

Ren's work no doubt, though he's not openly wearing a weapon.

Hux doesn’t lower his gun but keeps the barrel firmly pointed at Ren's face.

_What the actual fuck?_

Ren makes a step forward and Hux cocks the hammer on his gun.

"You're wondering what I'm doing here," Ren says, seemingly unbothered by the prospect of a bullet lodged in his skull.

Hux does wonder indeed, though he might have an idea.

"You set me up," he hisses, mouth pulled into a snarl. "You sent your cronies after me and knowingly endangered an otherwise simple assignment."

"But you killed your mark, didn't you?" Ren asks, unbothered by Hux's anger.

Rendered almost speechless by such insolence Hux can only bring himself to ask one thing, the single word pressed out between clenched teeth.

"Why?"

Ren shrugs, a careless gesture surely intended to agitate Hux further. Which, to his shame, is working splendidly. Hux is seething.

"I was curious what you'd do."

The sheer audacity. Hux has half a mind to throw the gun away and strangle the man with his bare hands.

"You were curious?" he echoes, incredulous.

"Yes," Ren says, a slight crease forming between his brows, as if he's annoyed with Hux for making him repeat himself. "They say you're good. One of the best even. I wanted to see for myself if there's any truth to it."

"And that's why you jeopardized a high-risk operation such as this?" Hux snaps. "You insufferable, arrogant, self-centered man-child!"

He should shoot him where he stands and be done with it.

Ren's gaze darkens, his permanently sulky expression hardening and Hux can’t help but feel caught.

"You can try," he says. "But we both know that you're out of bullets."

Hux curses underneath his breath. He doesn’t know what gave him away, what made it so obvious that he wants Ren dead but it seems the man is more perceptive than Hux initially gave him credit for. Of course, Hux could try and switch the empty magazine with the one he took from one of the corpses earlier and hope his reflexes are faster than Ren's. He's undoubtedly bigger and more muscular but probably not as agile as Hux. It would be worth the try.

"Don't," Ren simply warns, as if he can read Hux's mind.

"Don't what?" Hux feigns ignorance, his fingers already reaching for the magazine in his back pocket.

Ren is on him in a heartbeat, a black whirlwind made flesh, and before Hux can do so much as blink Ren's hand is around his throat, lifting him up and smashing him against a wall.

Pain explodes behind Hux's eyelids as his head connects with the crumbling concrete, the clutter of his gun as it drops to the floor echoing through the abandoned factory hall.

"Don't do that," Ren whispers, too close for comfort.

Hux's vision blurs and his ears are ringing but Kylo Ren's deep drawl still manages to drown out every other noise.

The grip around his neck is constricting, unrelenting, but not necessarily suffocating.

Hux forces himself to breathe calmly, to not waste any more precious oxygen as he stares down at Kylo Ren, into his dark eyes speckled with gold.

"You owe me money," he croaks.

Ren blinks, his grip weakening. It's not enough for Hux to twist out of his hold and use Ren’s momentary confusion to slit his throat with his hidden knife, but it's enough to allow him to breathe more freely.

"What?"

The confusion flitting across Ren's face would have been amusing under different circumstances but Hux doesn't have the time to appreciate the surprisingly childlike expression.

Grabbing hold of Ren's arm, he uses every ounce of strength he possesses to deliver a brutal kick to Ren's pectorals.

All air is punched out of the man and he stumbles backwards, consequently letting go of Hux who topples to the ground. He's quick to get back on his feet though, knife already pulled from his boot when he surges forward, hellbent on cutting Ren's throat.

But things are never that easy and Ren recovers quickly enough to deflect Hux's attack, grab him by his arm and use his other, free fist, to hit him square in the face.

The pain is excruciating and Hux is almost positive he has broken his nose. Blood rushes out of both his nostrils, ruining his expensive dress shirt.

One thing is for certain, Kylo Ren possesses a mean right hook.

Hux grips his knife tighter, desperate to hold onto something as he tries to will the room to stop swimming with the power of his mind alone.

It's of little use and when Ren tackles him for the second time in the course of a few minutes he's too slow to ram his blade into Ren's neck. He only succeeds in embedding it into Ren's massive shoulder but it barely provokes a reaction.

Ren grunts when the sharp blade sinks into his flesh but doesn't let go of Hux.

So this is how he will die, Hux laments as they go down in a messy tangle, Ren's whole weight crashing against him, pressing down on his ribcage and making it impossible to breathe. Killed by an overgrown brat. How humiliating.

Ren's hair is a dark shroud as it falls around Hux's face, his ragged breathing warm against Hux's skin.

"What did you mean?"

Hux shudders as Ren speaks directly into his ear, the fine hairs on his neck standing at attention. He barely registers the meaning of Ren's words and when he does, the spark of intrigue is quickly replaced by irritation.

"What?" he hisses, squirming underneath Ren to no avail.

"You said I owe you money," Ren grumbles.

Hux turns his head to look at Ren's sulking expression, their noses so close the tips are almost touching.

"Don't you think you have bigger problems right now?" Hux croaks.

Ren doesn't seem to think so. He shrugs, making the knife lodged into his shoulder shift a little.

"Fine," Hux snaps when Ren makes no move to either kill him or get off him. "You left without paying at Maz'. She made me pay for your abomination of a meal.”

Silence descends upon them both as they stare each other in the eyes, Hux's tinged with annoyance while Ren's dark eyes widen in increments, before he huffs a laugh and rolls off Hux, leaving him lying in the dust and dirt.

He pulls out the small knife still lodged in his shoulder and presses the fabric of his shirt into the wound to stop the blood, keeping a straight face the entire time.

Stupid, Hux thinks but doesn't say, to pull out the knife and risk losing more blood and finally consciousness. As a fabled hitman, Ren should know such things but Hux is in no position to point it out to him.

He picks up the knife Ren has carelessly discarded and gets up on his feet again. Frowning at the blood on it, Hux wipes it with a handkerchief he produces from his back pocket before he turns to Ren once more.

The man is as careless as ever, having turned his back on him, hands in the pockets of his denim trousers as he strolls towards the exit of the factory.

"What do you think you're doing?" Hux asks, annoyance and confusion colouring his tone in equal measure.

Ren throws a look over his broad shoulder and shrugs.

"I owe you dinner. So let's go."

He doesn't say more than that, leaving Hux to either follow him or stay behind. Either way he doesn't seem to care.

Cursing softly underneath his breath, his natural accent creeping into his voice as he heaps insult upon insult on Ren, Hux follows after him.

He still has a mission to complete after all and his father doesn't take to failure kindly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> Next chapter goes up tomorrow evening!


	3. A Fool but a dangerous One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ren throws him a look over the glass of pink soda the only waiter in the café wordlessly brought him the moment they sat down. He's a valued customer it seems.
> 
> "You like to complain, don't you?" Ren asks, all the while sipping on his brightly coloured concoction.
> 
> Hux bristles in return. "I'm merely stating facts."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here it is! Chapter III of this little collaboration! Thank you so much for all your kind words concerning previous chapters. Hopefully this chapter won't disappoint either!
> 
> The wonderful artwork was done by the equally wonderful [Coralshards](https://coralshards.tumblr.com)  
> Check out her tumblr!
> 
> And thank you also my darlings [StoryTellingApe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/storytellingape/profile) and [MsModernity](https://twitter.com/MsModernity) for lending a helping hand with the beta.

III

 

Much to Hux's surprise, Ren leads him to Hell's Kitchen, the asbestos-grey streets a familiar, almost comforting sight.

It's early afternoon, so the children—having survived another day at school—are playing in the streets, chasing each other with sticks. Others are playing in an oily puddle, admiring their reflections in the rainbow-coloured water.

Most of the people here know who Hux is, or they know his father, and when he and Ren make their way through the narrow alleys the residents greet him with a respectful nod before they return to their daily business.

If Ren notices then he doesn't comment on it.

"You have some nerve waltzing into our territory like you own it," Hux remarks when Ren pauses to buy a pair of apples from one of the many street vendors.

Ren doesn't take the obvious bait, simply throws Hux a look before he tosses him one of the apples.

He catches it, albeit barely, and throws Ren a look.

"You're the only one here who knows who I am," Ren says.

Hux falls silent, feeling foolish all of the sudden. Of course, there's a reason Kylo Ren is only known as _Ghost_ to most. If not for Maz then even Hux would still be groping in the dark concerning his identity.

If nobody knows what you look like, it's easy to walk into enemy territory without a care in the world.

Not much longer though, Hux promises himself.

For the moment, he decides to play nice. No matter how powerful his father and the organisation behind his name, he can't very well shoot Ren in the middle of the street on a busy Saturday afternoon.

Even for him that would entail consequences he's not ready to deal with yet.

"That's not quite true though, is it?" he asks and pockets the apple.

Ren throws him a questioning look while biting into his own, taking big, noisy gulps as he wolfs the fruit down.

"Maz knew you," Hux elaborates, carefully watching Ren for any shift in his surprisingly expressive face but he doesn't even blink.

"Maz knows everyone," he says, mouth full with mushy fruit pulp. Utterly revolting.

There's more to it than that, Hux is sure, but desists to press the issue any further. If he has learned anything of value concerning Kylo Ren yet, it is that he's easily provoked and just as easy to lash out. Hux can do without another demonstration of his obvious strength.

Wordlessly, Ren leads them into a dingy back alley so narrow the can barely walk side by side, and then into what Hux suspects is supposed to be a café but looks much more like a den. The windows are stained and partially cracked, the few chairs put out in the front are held together only by duct tape and, in one particularly noteworthy case, an assortment of colourful shoe laces.

The interior proves little better.

As soon as they set foot into the establishment, Hux is hit by a thick wall of smoke and the stench of stale sweat.

Nose curled in disgust, Hux follows after Ren who navigates the grime-stained room with an ease surely born from familiarity.

It irks Hux, to see Ren so comfortable, while he himself has never even heard of this café despite it being located in his neighbourhood and his father's territory. He ought to know every corner, every crevice.

They settle at a table that looks as if it hasn't seen a wet washcloth in at least the last three decades, its surface covered in hearts and arrows somebody must have carved into the lacquered wood with a knife; the underside is sticky with old gum.

"This is disgusting," Hux can't help but voice his dissatisfaction.

It's juvenile, he's well aware of it, but the urge to let the irritating man across him know exactly how little he approves of the entire situation is stronger than his common sense.

Ren seems little impressed, both with Hux's complaints and the stab wound in his shoulder he has only bandaged up provisionally with the first aid kit he kept in his unexpectedly well-maintained 1970 Chevrolet Chevelle 454 SS.

They drove here together, in that very car, the sheer awkwardness of it all guaranteed to make Hux cringe whenever he’ll think about it in the coming months.

Ren throws him a look over the glass of pink soda the only waiter in the café wordlessly brought him the moment they sat down. He's a valued customer it seems.

"You like to complain, don't you?" Ren asks, all the while sipping on his brightly coloured concoction.

Hux bristles in return. "I'm merely stating facts."

"I wouldn't state them so loudly then," Ren shoots back. "Your people are a proud folk."

"What makes you think they're my people?" Hux asks, lowering his voice to a whisper to avoid anybody overhearing them.

Ren's obscene mouth curls into a miniscule smile, barely visible over the rim of his glass.

"Your red hair, the green eyes. The accent you try to hide with that fake, fancy British accent of yours but which still shines through when you're agitated. Like you are now."

Hux's expression darkens.

"A surprisingly astute observation," he allows.

There's little point in denying it but Hux can still be miffed by the ease with which Ren had figured it all out.

Hux's underhanded compliment earns him a careless shrug but nothing more.

"People are easy to read," Ren explains. "You're no exception, no matter what you might think."

Hux quit smoking years ago but Ren's casual rudeness has him itching for the comforting burn of tobacco in his lungs.

"Careful, Ren," he warns. "I'm not afraid to finish what I've started."

He jerks his head at the wound hidden underneath Ren's sweater.

Ren's expression darkens, the simple threat enough to coax a noticeable reaction from him.

"Doubtful," he growls. "Killing me would displease your father and if there's one you don't want to do is displease him."

Hux has to swallow the bitter laughter bubbling up in his throat.

If only Ren knew. There’s no pleasing Brendol Hux. No matter how quickly, how efficiently Hux disposes of his enemies, how carefully he handles every new assignment, every task, it won't ever be enough for the man who fathered him.

If only Ren knew that he's still alive not because of Brendol's explicit orders but in spite of them.

No doubt, the moment Hux reports back and without Ren's head on a silver platter, he will be deemed a failure once more. And it won't matter how many sound arguments he'll put forth in his defense, no matter how hard he'll try to make his father understand that it wasn't the right time to dispose of Ren. Not yet.

Even the argument that he would have risked getting caught by the authorities had he tried to kill Ren in broad daylight, would be no valid excuse in the eyes of Brendol Hux. If he has to sacrifice his own flesh and blood in order to achieve his goals, then so be it. Hux is under no illusion that he, by merit of their shared blood, is somehow nondisposable or different from any other soldier under his father's command.

Ren, however, doesn't know any of this, foolishly assuming that he is somehow of enough value to the elder Hux that he doesn't have to fear for his safety, that he is the exception to the rule.

How utterly clueless he is.

Hux intends to keep it that way. So he swallows the bitterness and the laughter both and simply stares at the other man, unblinking, his hands folded in his lap so that he doesn't have to touch anything in this café more than absolutely necessary, least of all the abomination of a table.

But Ren seems incapable of letting the topic rest.

"You hate your father and yet you hunger for his approval," he says, flipping casually through the menu that's little more than a few yellowed pages stapled together.

It's a peculiar kind of cruelty, one that Hux might have appreciated in any other situation and were it not directed at him.

Ren has a knack for sniffing out a person's weaknesses, their half-healed wounds and trauma, and once he has, he sinks his claws in deep, ripping at the flesh and skin, making them bleed all over again.

No doubt, Ren enjoys all of this immeasurably, even though his expression remains carefully neutral, barely a hint of sadistic pleasure gleaming in his eyes.

Hux would like to gouge them out, press his fingertips into the sockets until Ren’s eyeballs burst under the pressure, leaving behind nothing but blood and gore.

A flicker of his gruesome thoughts must show on his face, for when he forces himself to refocus and look at Ren once more, the man's face brightens with curiosity.

He opens his mouth to say something—something utterly inane Hux is sure—when his eyes widen in sudden recognition.

An expression of fury washes over his face, unbridled and all-consuming, his brows drawn together, his mouth pulled into a vicious snarl.

Hux startles, hand already moving towards the the handgun tucked into his belt when he realises that Ren's anger is not directed at him. His eyes are fixed on a point somewhere behind Hux's shoulder.

When Hux turns, following Ren's line of sight, all he can see is one old man making his way through the crowd and over to them with sure steps.

He looks somewhat familiar, with his silvery hair and deep lines around his mouth and eyes that speak of a life well-lived, if not always quite in line with the law if the holstered gun dangling from his hip is any indication.

"Ben!" he shouts over the bustling of the café, his tone that of a father disapproving of an unruly child's antics.

Hux's mouth curls into an amused smile. The city has no shortage of bumbling weirdos and this man must be one of them.

A sharp jab already on the tip of his tongue, Hux turns back to Ren but the words turn to ash in his mouth when he notices Ren's expression.

He's still furious, there's no mistaking it, but underneath the anger lurks a primal fear that has Hux's blood run cold.

Kylo Ren, Snoke's feared hound, looks like he's seen a ghost.

He gets up, rather abruptly, and his chair topples to the ground with a loud clatter, the noise drawing every pair of eyes in the room. Silence descends, the single waiter nowhere to be seen, and Hux gets the sinking feeling that the situation will only deteriorate from this point onwards.

"Ben," the man Hux still can't quite place tries again as he comes to a halt not two feet away from them.

He doesn't acknowledge Hux at all, his sole attention resting on Ren.

Ren himself remains silent, posture rigid and his shoulders shaking slightly with barely controlled tension.

"Please, Ben," the stranger pleads, not quite reaching out yet but obviously tempted to. "Come home."

Home? Hux throws Ren a questioning glance but is ignored.

"Leave," Ren hisses, his hands balled to fists at his sides. It's the first thing he has said since catching sight of the mysterious man.

There's a history between them and a painful one at that. It doesn't take a genius to see that.

Hux can hear Ren grind his teeth, even from where he's sitting; can see the flurry of emotions that Ren is incapable of hiding.

An involuntary shiver runs down Hux's spine. Ren looks like a feral beast that has been driven into a corner, poised to either flee or fight.

The old man either doesn't notice or doesn't care. He dares to take another step forward.

"Your mother and I miss you."

What follows, Hux can only describe as pure and utter carnage.

With a piercing cry, Ren upends their table, sending it flying into the counter with an ease that would have terrified Hux had ne not already been on the receiving end of Ren's strength before.

The table that has already been wobbly to begin with, breaks into a thousand pieces, sending splinters of wood flying everywhere.

The people are quick to scurry apart, holding on to either their drinks or their weapons, guns at the ready to end Ren's sudden tantrum if necessary.

Out of the corner of his eyes Hux can see a few of them approaching already, their faces beet-red with anger.

They're not afraid to heap insults and threats upon Ren, feeling secure in their numbers, though they have yet to lay a hand on him.

"Ben, please, calm down," the old man tries again, either remarkably stubborn or outrageously stupid.

Neither he nor Ren acknowledge the crowd slowly closing in around them.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" a new voice cries out, the accent unmistakably Irish. "You're looking for trouble, chap?"

Hux quickly scans the room to find the owner of the raspy voice. It belongs to a sturdy lad not older than twenty-five with a face so weather-beaten he might as well have been forty already. Surrounding him are a group of six other young men, not quite as rough looking but just as pissed at Ren for ruining their no doubt rare recreational downtime as their leader.

Hux has seen enough pub brawls and street fights to know that the situation is about to escalate.

They need to get out of here and quickly.

He barely manages to avoid the first punch aimed at his face, his chair hitting the floor with a dull thud as he jumps up and out of reach.

Why the angry mob would decide to attack him first, a more or less innocent bystander, Hux doesn't dwell on. Instead, he sends his assailant to the ground with a single, well-aimed punch into his throat. The man's larynx caves in with a satisfying crunch and he goes down with a pathetic gurgle.

Then all hell breaks loose.

Fist are flying, gunshots are tearing through the clamour and one bullet embeds itself into the wall behind Hux, missing him only by a hairsbreadth.

Once more he's reminded why he usually tries to avoid hand-to-hand combat. It's messy, it's disgraceful and it's entirely lacking in sophistication and elegance.

He dodges another uncoordinated attack and one or two chair legs that have been repurposed as crude makeshift batons, all while looking for a way to escape.

His gaze settles on Ren. Amidst all the chaos, all the tumult, he like a vengeful god of old, his hair falling in messy curls around his face.

He's fighting two men at once, using nothing but his bare hands while his two opponents brandish a switchblade and a broken bottle as weapons.

Hux cringes when Ren grabs one of the men with near inhuman speed and smashes his face into the coffee counter still littered with glass shards and wood splinters.

As Ren lets him go, the man sinks to his knees, his face a grotesque mess of blood and torn skin. When he hits the dirty floor, he moves no more. Ren doesn't even deign to look at him.

It's a short-lived victory.

Two other men are quick to take the place of their fallen comrade and Hux realises that, no matter how strong and physically superior Ren is, in the end, the sheer number of enemies will be their downfall.

Crushing another man's nose with the heel of his hand, Hux comes to a decision.

He makes his way through the incensed masses and to Ren as quickly as possible and grabs him by his arm.

"Ren!" he screams, pulling none-too-gently to get the man's attention. "We need to get out of here!"

Ren whirls around, fists already raised when recognition blossoms on his face and the feverish glint in his eyes dies down to a faint glimmer.

Which, unfortunately, doesn't mean that he has lost any of his stubbornness.

"No!" he growls and shakes off Hux's hand.

"Do you really think you can win against all of these people and then make it out of Hell's Kitchen alive?" Hux screams back.

That at last seems to make Ren reconsider. He throws Hux a wavering look, his expression reminiscent to that of a sulking teenager.

"Out!" Hux barks. "Now!"

Everything after is a blur. Hux remembers Ren grabbing him and dragging him to the exit, under his loudly voiced protests. And he remembers the shouts and curses of the mob close behind the as they stumbled through back alleys and yards, until the mob chasing him finally gave up and allowed them to escape.

By the time they come to a halt, Hux is wheezing, desperately grasping for air, his dress shirt dark with sweat.

Leaning against a red brick wall, he tries to bring his hair—which has come undone during their frantic escape—back into some semblance of order.

"What were you even thinking starting a fight over nothing?!" he snaps when his attempt to fix his hair fails.

To say he's livid would be a gross understatement but Ren cares little for Hux's indignity.

He stands with his back turned, unwilling or unable to look Hux into the eyes.

"You wouldn't understand," he mumbles at last, barely audible.

"Oh, wouldn't I?" Hux shoots back. "Because my father isn't a former smuggler turned philanthropist who renounced a life of crime to marry a senator's daughter?"

Ren is on him in a heartbeat. this time though Hux is prepared.

Before Ren can do so much as lay a finger on him, Hux has already drawn the switchblade stolen from one of the mobsters back in the cafe and presses it again Ren's throat.

"So you know," Ren grumbles, his Adam's apple moving as he speaks, the edge of Hux's knife scratching over his skin. "How?"

Hux clicks his tongue.

"Please," he huffs. "I'm not as dense as you seem to think I am. That man back there, that was Han Solo."

Han Solo is a legend in some circles of the criminal underworld, a cautionary tale in some others.

For years he had run one of the most successful smuggling rings in the country, only to throw it all away for a pair of pretty eyes.

A pair that belonged to a politician no less.

Leia Organa was and is a constant thorn in the side of New York's less reputable folk. Even more so since she was elected senator.

She and her efforts to purge organised crime in New York have been a particular persistent thorn in Brendol’s side for quite some time now.

Hux pulls back at last, confident that Ren won't attempt another bound to fail attack, and pockets the switchblade with a flourish.

"Ben Solo," he muses aloud. "The lost son. Is your mother aware of what you're doing for a living?"

Ren stares at him, full mouth pressed into a firm line, saying  nothing which, really, is answer enough.

Hux clicks his tongue and produces a thin cigarette from the dented box stuffed into the back pocket of his trousers, lightening it with a single match. He doesn't offer Ren one.

"What is it to you?" Ren grumbles when the silence stretches on, filled only by the thick tendrils of smoke Hux blows out between each drag.

Ren's voice is different now, softer, less menacing, defensive, his previous posturing all but forgotten.

Hux huffs a dry laugh.

"Absolutely nothing. What do I care if the spoiled brat of some second-rate politician decides to rebel against mommy and daddy by joining the world of organised crime?"

The not at all subtle dig falls on deaf ears, much to Hux's secret disappointment.

Instead of the by now familiar anger, all Hux can see when he looks into Ren's eyes is...relief? Perhaps even a sliver of gratitude that has the soft hairs in the back of Hux's neck stand up in alarm.

He clears his throat.

"Anyway," he says as he turns away from Ren and his too tender expression. "I will take my leave now. No doubt the imprudence you have shown in that establishment just now will have consequences and will require some damage control. We'll anxiously await your answer to our proposal."

Ren doesn't protest, doesn't move at all when Hux steps past him, but Hux can feel his gaze burning on his skin long after he has rounded the corner and made his way back to his apartment.

 

   

 

* * *

 

Kylo Ren is Ben Solo.

An unexpected development and, despite Hux's best efforts not to let it affect him, a revelation that’s hard to swallow.

Not because he cares much for the complicated family history attached to the name—he had been truthful in that regard, when he told Ren that he couldn't care less—but because this new knowledge could provide an opportunity of such scale it has Hux's stomach churning with excitement.

In the eyes of the public, Ben Solo is dead, taken from his parents in a freak accident, dubbed 'The Fall' by the press. Even after five years and endless investigations both by the police and overambitious hobby detectives, nobody can say for sure what exactly happened in this alleged motorcycle accident.

The conspiracy theories are abundant, raging from an illegal race gone wrong to a scheme involving a doppelganger and planted evidence to obscure the fact that Ben Solo had been murdered by his own family.

That the reality turned out to be even more bizarre than any possible conspiracies, well, Hux can at least appreciate the sheer ridiculousness of it.

Ben Solo, heir to Leia Organa, nemesis of New York's underworld, is Kylo Ren, one of the most prolific hitman to have ever lent his talents to a crime lord.

If handled with the necessary tact then this knowledge could trigger Leia Organa's downfall.

 

* * *

 

"You started a fight in my territory, in the middle of the day, for absolutely no reason other than your own inability to bring the situation under your control," Brendol snaps, fist coming down hard on the massive oak desk dominating his study. "Instead of doing what I told you to do, you wasted my time and resources to dally! And now you have the audacity to question my decision and suggest we leave Kylo Ren alive?!"

Hux stands tall, hands behind his back as he stares at the wall across him, careful not to meet his father's incensed gaze.

"I assure you, sir---"

"Enough!" Brendol brusquely interrupts him, waving his hand at Hux much in the same way somebody would swat at a bothersome insect to get rid of it. "I've no more patience for your excuses."

Blood collects in Hux's mouth, his tongue numb from how hard he's biting down on it. The taste comforting in its familiarity.

His father is being unreasonable, showing a worrying lack of foresight that has Hux frowning.

Throwing caution to the wind, Hux remains standing, even after Brendol's careless dismissal.

"Kylo Ren could prove a valuable asset," he insists. "If not the man himself then his familiar ties. The scandal--"

"Enough!" Brendol bellows.

Hux merely blinks, though he can't suppress the displeased twitch of his nose at being so rudely interrupted a second time.

"Did I not make myself clear enough concerning Kylo Ren?" Brendol growls, flexing his fingers in a way that Hux has come to understand as a silent warning a long time ago already.

Taking a deep breath through his nose, Hux swallows the resentment lodged in the back of his throat.

"You did," he relents. "I apologise for presuming to know better."

He doesn't wait to be dismissed for a third time.

 

* * *

 

Brendol is a fool. An old, self-absorbed fool whose days of splendor are long gone, his tactical brilliance has morphed into paranoia, his military discipline into cruel terror. He has become a man entirely unfit to lead an organisation such as theirs.

"I agree."

Hux snorts, unfazed by Phasma's sudden appearance by his side, walking him down the vast corridors of his father's manor.

"Kylo Ren would be a powerful ally," she clarifies, even though Hux has given no indication that he heard her.

"Eavesdropping?" he asks instead, a hint of amusement tinging his otherwise placid tone. "How undignified."

Phasma scoffs.

"I have no use for dignity."

"Of course not," Hux agrees and leaves it at that. He's in no mood to discuss the issue any further, not even when Phasma is so openly taking his side in this conflict.

Unfortunately, she's not as easily deterred by his curtness as Hux would have hoped.

"Do you truly believe Kylo Ren could be convinced to switch sides and work for us?" she prods further, adamant in engaging him in a conversation he has in no way consented to.

"Perhaps," Hux allows, knowing full well that she won’t let the issue rest until she has her answer. "As of yet, I'm still somewhat undecided."

The overly large Aviator glasses Phasma is wearing today make it difficult to discern her expression but Hux has known her long enough to know when he's being silently judged.

"I think you've already made your decision," she muses, the glasses catching what little light there is in the hallway when she tilts her head.

"Is that so?" Hux snaps and then promptly shuts his mouth upon realising how defensive he sounds.

Phasma halts, back ramrod straight as she pulls the massive (and in Hux's opinion garish) oak doors open for him.

"Yes," she says when Hux is already halfway out. "Otherwise you would have killed him already."

The door clicks shut before Hux has a chance to retort with a biting reply.


	4. A softness quite unexpected

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The door opens with a soft click and immediately he knows that something is wrong. He only had to turn the key in the lock once, even though he knows without the shadow of a doubt that he has turned it twice this morning. One of the many rituals he performs on a daily basis. And he is nothing if not consistent.
> 
> Taking off his shoes without so much as a rustle of clothes, he slides past the threshold and into his flat.
> 
> There's light spilling into the hallway from his living room. If Hux were to make a guess he’d say it’s coming from the tall floor lamp standing next to his sofa, bathing the whole room in a soft golden glow.
> 
> Bracing himself, his fingers curled tightly around the handle of his knife, he rounds the corner leading from the hallway into the living room to face whoever was foolish enough to break into his flat.
> 
> "What the bloody hell?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here it is! The final chapter of [Coralshards](https://coralshards.tumblr.com)' and my collaboration! Thank you, everyone who was so kind as to leave feedback, give kudos and bookmark this fic!
> 
> Art by [Coralshards](https://coralshards.tumblr.com),  
> Story by yours truly.
> 
> Another thank you again to [StoryTellingApe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/storytellingape/profile) and and [MsModernity](https://twitter.com/MsModernity) for being my trusty beta-readers!

IV

 

Most of the drive back to his apartment, Hux spends pondering Phasma's parting words.

Unlike Phasma, his driver Mitaka has common sense enough not to try and engage him in meaningless chit-chat and so Hux quickly comes to the grudging conclusion that Phasma is right.

Brendol is too stubborn and old to but Hux knows potential when he sees it and killing Ren, at this point, would be a regrettable waste of it.

Ren's personal ties to Senator Organa alone could very well be enough to finally instigate her downfall. The irony of a politician of her standing, a woman who has always claimed to want to put an end to organised crime, having a son who is torturing and killing people in the name of one of the most powerful crime lords in the history of this city isn’t lost on Hux and has him near giddy with delight.

Brendol be damned for not seeing the opportunity that has practically been handed to them on a silver platter.

The remaining drive, Hux contemplates his options, forges plans and disregards them again in rapid succession, conjures up possible futures in his mind, all of which end with his father's downfall and his ascension, taking what is rightfully his.

And if a few of those illusions of grandeur involve Kylo Ren as his loyal and fierce hound then who is there to judge him for it?

His indulged fantasies come to an abrupt end when the car stops with screeching tires—Mitaka may be a reliable chauffeur but Hux doubts he actually owns a valid license—and a look outside the car window reveals that they have reached his apartment block.

Only when he steps outside the car and pays Mitaka for his time does Hux realise that he has no means of contacting Ren.

After their last unfortunate meeting he hasn't had the presence of mind to ask how to contact the man.

An embarrassing oversight on his part that might make another visit to Maz necessary and might as well add another favour owned to her already long list.

Huffing and displeased with himself, Hux fumbles for his keys before he finds them in the deepest corner of his pocket.

The door opens with a soft click and immediately he knows that something is wrong.

He only had to turn the key in the lock once, even though he knows without the shadow of a doubt that he has turned it twice this morning. One of the many rituals he performs on a daily basis. And he is nothing if not consistent.

Taking off his shoes without so much as a rustle of clothes, he slides past the threshold and into his flat.

He doesn't have his trusty rifle with him, little use as it would have been in the confined space of his apartment anyway, but there's still the thin stiletto blade strapped to his wrist and hidden up his sleeve. It should be more than enough to incapacitate any possible attacker.

There's light spilling into the hallway from his living room. If Hux were to make a guess he’d say it’s coming from the tall floor lamp standing next to his sofa, bathing the whole room in a soft golden glow.

Bracing himself, his fingers curled tightly around the handle of his knife, he rounds the corner leading from the hallway into the living room to face whoever was foolish enough to break into his flat.

"What the bloody hell?"

Sitting on his couch, looking like death warmed over, is Kylo Ren.

Hux's blade embeds itself into the sofa cushions with a soft hiss, right where Ren's face has been barely a heartbeat ago.

The bastard is fast, Hux has to give him and he braces himself for a counter attack that, inexplicably, never comes.

When he lowers his arms, Ren is still sitting there, shoulders hunched and posture slumped. If Hux didn't know any better he'd surmise that Ren looks downright lugubrious. Not that Hux cares.

"I didn't come here to fight," Ren grumbles.

When he lifts his head and the mess of tangled curls falls away to reveal his face, Hux nearly gasps. A bruise adorns Ren's face, covering most of the left side, dark purple around his eye, sickly pink on his cheek.

It hadn't been there before.

Hux would remember if Ren had injured himself so seriously during their impromptu bar fight. Which means that he must have injured himself in the short interval between their last and current meeting.

But how?

Hux can't deny that he's curious to know but there are more pressing questions in desperate need for an answer than Ren's mysterious new injuries.

Most pressing of which is:

"How do you know where I live?" Hux hisses.

He has been careful. Made sure nobody has been following him home, has killed those who tried. The flat itself is rented under another name, the monthly payments for it taken from an offshore account. How can he know?

Ren shrugs, absolutely infuriating Hux with his nonchalance.

"The first time we met?" he asks, as if Hux needs the reminder. "I followed that personal driver of yours after he picked you up. Figured out how to break the lock on your door without any trace when you were busy dealing with those crooks at the factory. Your security is shit."

There's little Hux can say to that and so he settles for a simple, dumbfounded: "Why?"

Another shrug.

"I wanted to kill you. At first. Your persistence was annoying."

He pauses briefly, flexing his hands in his laps as if he has just admitted to a juvenile crush and not to his intentions to murder Hux in his own flat.

Hux has no right to act shocked about Ren's confession—not when he himself had been initially tasked with killing Ren as well—and yet he can't suppress the wave of indignation rising in his chest at the unexpected revelation.

"Kill me?" he echoes, somewhat high-pitched.

Ren has the unexpected good grace not to comment on it. He throws Hux, the deep brown of his eyes only enhanced by the pulsing bruise.

"Does it really surprise you?" he asks.

It doesn't. Not really. Hux indignation is born from another reason: embarrassment.

Of course it shouldn't surprise him that a fellow hitman's first instinct was to eliminate possible competition or, even worse, an executioner sent to get him out of the way.

Hux is a high standing member of a rival group and his offer to have Ren work for them had been dubious at best.

He failed to recognise Ren as capable of critical thought, lulled into a false sense of security by the man's admittedly rather childish disposition and uncontrolled temper. The little setup at the desolate warehouse should have been warning enough but in his arrogance he had simply ignored all the warning signs.

He has underestimated Ren. And now he's going to pay for his fatal oversight.

Hux steels himself, his eyes flitting from Ren's face to the stiletto blade still firmly lodged in his upholstery.

"So this is it then?" he says, forcing his voice back down to its normal timbre. "I can promise you one thing, Ren. I won't make it easy for you."

Ren's eyes narrow and his nose scrunches up in a way that has him look more like an annoyed teenager than a man about to kill Hux in his own flat.

"You're not listening," he complains and moves to pull Hux's knife out of the sofa cushion. "I'm not here to fight."

Hux has some well-founded doubts about that claim but isn't going to argue with the man who is holding a razor-sharp knife in his hand.

"Why are you here then?" he probes, confused and feeling decidedly out of his element.

Ren doesn't answer immediately, all of the sudden inexplicably fascinated by the engraved handle of the knife.

"Ren?" Hux presses.

"I didn't know where else to go," it bursts out of him, with no pauses left between individual words.

Hux is struck speechless but Ren doesn't seem to have expected him to reply anyway. Isn't even looking at him when he goes on.

"I needed time to think, a place where nobody would come looking for me," he argues.

"So you chose my flat of all places?"

"It was convenient," Ren is quick to defend himself. "Nobody else knows where you live. I broke into here before."

"Oh, of course," Hux huffs, the tell-tale tingle of a skullspliting headache rapidly approaching behind his eyes. "Just break into my apartment and make yourself at home. There's a bone saw in the kitchen; you can cut my corpse up into tiny pieces before you get rid of it. Convenient!"

There's neither logic nor reason to Ren's words. Surely there must be other places he could have fled to, other hideouts to use if he wished to disappear so desperately.

Throughout his career, Hux has established several safehouses in the city, fully equipped with everything a man seeking to become invisible would need.

Perhaps it's time to move into one of them permanently and leave this apartment behind, given that it’s now compromised.

A shame, really. Hux rather likes his flat.

He sighs and presses the heel of one hand against the closed lids of his eyes. When he opens them he's met with Ren's inquiring gaze.

This whole situation is downright ridiculous and so Hux does what he thinks is the only adequate thing in reaction to such madness: He goes and pours himself a drink. Pours one for Ren as well, more out of conditioned politeness than any real desire to make his unexpected guest feel welcome.

"Here," he says as he holds the glass of whiskey out to Ren, mere inches from his face.

The cubes of ice slowly dissolving in the amber liquid clink against each other, making a soft, rattling sound that, at last, rouses Ren's attention.

He looks up, momentarily distracted from whatever tumultuous thoughts plague his mind.

"What is this?" he asks, incredulous, his full mouth pulled into a pout.

"And offer," Hux explains. "For a truce."

So far Ren has shown no intention to leave anytime soon but neither has he tried to cut Hux's throat.

With few other options left to him, Hux is willing to give Ren the benefit of the doubt. At least for the moment.

Ren looks undecided still, eyeing the offered beverage with disdain and suspicion. Hux scoffs.

"It's not poisoned if that is what you fear."

It's the annoyance Hux doesn't bother to hide that seems to convince Ren in the end. For he takes the whiskey—the crystal tumbler disappearing almost entirely in Ren's massive paw Hux can't help but notice—and sniffs at the rim.

"It smells vile," he observes.

Hux can't say that Ren's lack in taste surprises him, not after having witnessed him all but devouring the culinary abomination that was fries with mayo.

"It's an acquired taste," he's willing to admit, trying his utmost to remain civil, to not start another argument so soon after he himself has declared a truce.

He takes a large gulp from his whiskey, relishing the burning sensation and the sudden warmth collecting in the pit of his stomach.

"What happened to your face?" he asks after swallowing. Not because he's particularly interested in whatever trouble Ren has got himself into when he wasn't actively working on making Hux's life difficult, but because the dragging silence is stifling and Ren's piercing gaze disconcerting, to say the least. Better make him talk.

If only Ren would play along.

Instead, he stares at Hux, shifting in his seat and looking decidedly uncomfortable before he downs his glass in one swig.

The reaction that follows was to be expected but is no less entertaining for it.

A whine tears itself from Ren's throat and his whole face scrunches up in a grimace of disgust. He coughs as he frantically swallows the little bit of alcohol, like a little boy tasting his first sip of beer.

"Not to your liking, I see," Hux muses, faked concern resonating in his voice. "Perhaps you would have preferred a milkshake."

Ren isn't so dense that he doesn’t notice when he's being mocked—throwing Hux's a scathing glare in reply—but he doesn't lash out, which is when Hux realises he's avoiding the question.

Which means there is more to this newly acquired bruise than another bar fight gone wrong.

Hux's curiosity is piqued.

"It looks quite painful," he says after some silent consideration, indicating the darkening bruise with a nod.

"What is it to you?" Ren grumbles, immediately on the defense and thus further confirming Hux’s suspicions.

"It will swell up if you don't tend to it. Probably enough to impair your vision," he points out, trying to appear casual.

Ren doesn't argue that estimation. At least he possesses enough common sense to realise that there's no point in doing so when they both know perfectly well that Hux is right. Not that he would openly acknowledge it.

Hux clicks his tongue and puts his half-empty glass down on the living room table, making a mental note to not leave it there too long and clean the thick glass table top as soon as he has the chance.

"Wait here," he instructs Ren. "I'll be back in a moment."

Hux tries not to think about how quickly Ren slumped back into his seat when he goes to retrieve some ice from the freezer in the kitchen and two towels from the bathroom that smell like fabric softener and artificial flowers. Doesn't think about how Ren only relaxed when Hux assured him he'd be back.

When he returns to the living room, Ren's sitting exactly where he has left him, seemingly not having moved a single inch though he perks up when Hux's purposefully heavy step announces his return.

Hux hands him the bag of ice wrapped tightly into one of the towels.

"There," he says. "Hold it to the bruise. But don’t press too hard unless, of course, you want to make it worse."

Ren does as he's been told and, instantly relief overtakes his battered face. Why he hasn’t tried to treat his injury before Hux has offered to do it for him remains a mystery.

"Much better, isn't it?" Hux asks.

"Tenderness doesn't suit you," Ren says instead of offering a word of thanks, his long lashes quivering when he presses the bag of ice harder against his face, despite Hux's prior warning.

Hux finds himself at a loss for words once more.

He doesn't consider himself a philanthropist in the slightest but Ren's brusque disregard of Hux’s rare display of kindness has him struggling for composure nonetheless.

It's somewhat remarkable, how effortlessly Ren manages to rile him up, shake him to his core and leave him dishevelled and confused and all of that without having to try.

Much like the whiskey, Hux swallows his simmering anger and sits down opposite Ren, long legs crossed.

"How would you know?" he shoots back. "We're not exactly well-acquainted."

Even though Ren did demonstrate an uncanny ability to sniff out and prey upon Hux's insecurities, loathe as he is to admit it.

"Maybe I'm tender only with those who have earned my trust and affection," he argues.

Ren's nostrils flare as he huffs in open amusement, not at all convinced.

"And who would that be?" he asks. "That little driver of yours? He's certainly gagging for your approval; it's hard to miss. Maybe I should kill him. See if you care."

Hux curls a copper-red brow.

Was that a note of jealousy he detected in Ren's voice or has he already had so much to drink that his inebriated brain conjures up such outlandish notions?

"I'd certainly be displeased," Hux says, slowly. "Mitaka is very...competent."

He makes sure to lower his voice to a suggestive whisper on the last word, watching Ren closely for any more signs of this perceived jealousy. And indeed, his eyes widen just a fraction as the implications of Hux's words register in his mind, before they narrow to thin slits.

Interesting.

Hux hasn't considered that Ren could develop any interest in him that would go past the professional. Not after he has made it so very clear how little he cares for Hux's words or his person during their first meeting at Maz's.

"Do you fuck him?"

Caught entirely off-guard, Hux recoils in his seat and stares at Ren, dumbfounded. Of all the questions he could have asked, this one Hux would have never expected to come out of his big mouth.

"I fail to see how that is any of your business," he snaps, feeling heat rise in his cheeks.

He and Mitaka? In a sexual relationship? Laughable.

"It isn't," Ren admits, his sole attention on Hux. "But I want to know."

"And you think simply because you want something you should automatically get it?"

Ren doesn't answer. He leans back into the cushions, his massive body looking utterly displaced on Hux's sofa, and eyes him carefully.

"You don't fuck him," he decides, though Hux can't say what exactly brought him to this conclusion. Perhaps a twitch of his eye? A quiver of his upper lip? The slightest shift in his posture?

"You two don't fuck," Ren repeats, secure in his perceived knowledge. "But he wants to. Wants _you_. Badly."

Hux disregards the idea with a wave of his hand.

"That’s preposterous."

It may be true that Mitaka is overly eager when it comes to pleasing Hux but who wouldn't be with the man who provides most of one's income?

"You're telling me you don't want to bend him over the hood of his own car?" Ren asks, as insolent as he had been shy mere moments ago.

It's not the first time Hux has endured such and similar filth—a childhood spent penned up like cattle in claustrophobic dorm rooms of an all-boys school would see to that—but something about the way Ren looks at him when he says it, about the way his voice takes on a curious edge, is different from the insinuations of the boys at boarding school. For one, Ren doesn't laugh at him like his classmates did, with sharp teeth and a cruel twist to their mouths when he asks, as if he might truly want to know and simply doesn't know how to formulate a more subtle inquiry.

"Is this your way of asking me if I'm available?"

Hux heaves a dry laugh and reaches for his empty tumbler, determined to go and pour himself another shot when the half-melted bag of ice hits the floorboards with a dull thud.

"Ren," he scolds, "please refrain from--"

He's cut off by Ren's tongue pushing it's way past his half-opened lips and a hand around his waist that's pulling him close and against a rather impressive chest.

His first instinct is to bite down on the offending appendage worming its way into his mouth, hard enough to draw blood and have its metallic taste wash over his tongue.

Ren doesn't even flinch.

On the contrary, he deepens the kiss, sucking Hux's tongue into his own mouth to get a taste of himself and moaning—moaning!—in delight when Hux reaches out to scrape his nails down his exposed arms.

"What do you think you're doing?!" Hux growls in the short reprieve between two kisses.

He's near dizzy with anger, caged by Ren's arms and at risk of being crushed by his massive body, considerably heavier than his own, despite the miniscule difference in their heights.

Ren doesn't slow down, as unrestrained and chaotic in this as he is in all things, with an urgency to his touches that borders on desperation.

"I'm kissing you," he pants, miffed, as though that much should have been obvious.

"Badly," Hux adds, the cheap barb lost when his voice catches in his throat.

Ren has forced his legs apart with frightening ease, settling himself in between them as if he belonged there.

He's hard and unsurprisingly well-endowed, rubbing his clothed erection against Hux's like a mindless animal wanting to mate.

"Get off me," Hux whispers against Ren's lips, his own wet wit a combination of saliva and blood.

"No," Ren simply says, leaving no room for protests.

He reaches up to fumble with the buttons of Hux's shirt only for Hux to slap his hand away.

"Impatient brat," Hux scolds him. "Did you not hear a word of what I just said? Get off me, you brute."

The hand on his chest stills and Ren looks up, eyes simultaneously wild and vulnerable, not at all like the eyes of a killer, not at all like Hux's own pale eyes.

Suddenly compelled, Hux reaches out, brushes his fingers over the bruise covering most of Ren's face. It's cold to the touch, still damp with the last residues of ice-water.

Tenderness doesn't suit him, Ren has said, and so Hux doesn't feel guilty when he digs his short fingernails into the tender skin.

Ren moans and his hips snap forward on their own accord.

"You don't want me to get off you," he mumbles, feverish, all but leaning into Hux's cruel caress.

"How arrogant," Hux muses. "To believe you of all people would know what I want."

And still, he has yet to offer up any real resistance to Ren's unexpected advances. A fact that hasn't been lost on either of them.

Ren shudders, his broad chest heaving as he presses down, coaxing a trembling moan from each of them.

"You're one of the deadliest assassins in the States. If you truly wanted me off you, you would have made it happen already."

Hux can't help it; the underhanded compliment, delivered oh so casually, as if Ren was merely stating a commonly known fact, has him whimper, his toes curling in his socks and his cock hardening in his trousers.

Nevertheless, Ren is being insolent, almost cheeky, and Hux isn't one to reward such behaviour.

Sneaking a hand in between their bodies, he makes a grab for Ren's crotch and squeezes his insistent erection hard enough to hurt.

His reward is a cut-off gasp.

"I'm not in the habit of sleeping with the enemy," Hux breathes against Ren's mouth, the fingers of one hand tracing the yellow-green tails of his bruise while the other is still holding onto his crotch tightly, a silent warning.

"What about sleeping with your allies?" Ren has the gall to ask, all while trying and failing to find a position more comfortably with Hux's iron grip on his most prized possession.

Hux grabs him a little tighter for it.

Despite his current predicament, Ren's eagerness to get into Hux's pants is charming, though it speaks of a certain inexperience that has Hux wonder how young he actually is.

"Are you?" he asks. "My ally? So far you have given me no reason to believe that you've decided to take me up on my generous offer."

Hesitation flares in Ren's eyes, momentarily overshadowing the fever daze of lust.

"I have decided," he mumbles. "I shall kill for you. As long as you'll do the same for me."

Surprised, Hux's grip on Ren weakens.

"Kill for you?"

"Yes," Ren whispers, his voice vibrating with poorly suppressed exhilaration. "Help me kill Snoke."

Hux's breath catches in his throat, a million questions on the tip of his tongue but all of them are swallowed up and quickly forgotten when Ren presses his mouth to Hux's in a bruising kiss.

Heat collects in Hux's groin, his clothes feeling all too constricting of a sudden.

"Off," he demands, lips tingling with the aftermath of their kiss. "Take that off me."

He's making little sense, he knows, but it seems that Ren can be rather attentive when he actually wants to be and so starts to unbutton Hux's rumpled dress shirt without further prompting, displaying surprising dexterity in the process.

Pushing the shirt out of the way, Ren doesn't waste any more time before he leans forward and closes his teeth around one of Hux's nipples.

"You beast!" Hux hisses, mind still reeling from Ren's revelations, his intentions to kill Snoke.

He wants to ask why. Why now? Why him? Why ask Hux for help?

But his tongue doesn't obey him, his body's need to be touched overshadowing all other thoughts. He wants to take and take and take. Take everything Ren is willing to give him and more.

It's been some time since he last allowed another man touch him like this and Ren's caresses in particular have him lose himself far quicker than he himself deems acceptable.

Disgusting, that's what his father would see if he could see him now. Meaning both his appalling lack of self-discipline and the way he spreads his legs for another man like a common whore.

It's part defiance, part burning lust that has Hux push back against Ren until he's on his back and Hux on top of him, grinding against him in a jerky rhythm, his shirt hanging off one shoulder to reveal the white expanse of his chest.

"You will fuck me," Hux tells him. "And you will fuck me good. And only then shall we discuss the perimeters of this...partnership."

The look Ren is giving him from beneath a tangled mess of hair is one of begrudging awe.

For a short, excruciating moment, Hux fears he has gone too far and Ren will push him off, angered by Hux's audacity to try and order him around, but then he lowers his eyes, looking as submissive as a man of his position can look, and nods.

Smug satisfaction swells inside Hux's chest at seeing Ren succumb to his whims so willingly. He lies motionless with Hux seated in his lap, patiently waiting, Hux realises, for him to command him as he sees fit.

"Go on," he urges, breath hitching when Ren places his broad hands on his chest.

Moving upwards to Hux's shoulders and where the dress shirt is barely clinging onto him, it doesn't take more than a gentle flick for it to fall away and bunch up in the crooks of Hux's arms.

It's downright pathetic how eager Hux is, every single touch of Ren's making his breath come harder, the anger still simmering underneath his skin only amplifying his arousal.

"My trousers, take them off," he demands next, though he makes no move to make it any easier for Ren to actually do as he’s been told.

Luckily, Ren is as stubborn in this as in everything else. He puts an arm around Hux's waist and sits up, mouth immediately latching onto one of his nipples and sucking on it until Hux is whimpering.

Despite the haze clouding his mind, he doesn't fail to notice that Ren is, despite his size, surprisingly dexterous, unbuttoning Hux's trousers with only one hand.

He doesn't waste any time to stick his hand right down Hux's underpants.

Under different circumstances, Hux would have found such behaviour appalling, might even have ended the encounter right then and there, but the friction on both his nipple and his cock have made him lenient. Instead of scolding Ren for his questionable bedroom etiquette he leans further into the other's touch.

"Greedy," Ren comments.

Hux grabs him by his shoulder, pressing the heel of his hand into the spot where the knife wound must be hidden underneath a layer of clothes and gauze.

A shiver runs through Ren, his thighs twitching underneath Hux, but he doesn't pull away.

His relitiation comes in the form of his hand curling around Hux's cock. He jerks him once, twice, then lets go of Hux again to finally get rid of his trousers and underwear.

It takes some fumbling to get them off, partly because Ren seems unwilling to let go of Hux for even a second, his hands constantly roaming over every inch of skin they can reach. In the end, Hux's clothes still land in an undignified heap on the floor, forgotten until Hux has need of them again.

He shifts a little, not enjoying the feeling of the seams of Ren's jeans against his naked ass. Ren, who is still completely covered up while Hux is sitting in his lap with nothing but socks and the garters to hold them up on.

Ren's attention shifts, eyes travelling down the length of Hux's calves and pausing at the simple garters.

Hux can barely resist the urge to roll his eyes at him when Ren's cock, pressed against his ass, twitches in obvious interest.

"You can't be serious," he groans, insulted. "I'm sitting naked in your lap but the socks are what excite you?"

"I'm not the only one getting excited," Ren points out, rubbing the tip of Hux's cock for emphasis.

A whimper tears itself from Hux's throat and he falls forward, nose pressing into the curve of Ren's neck.

"But you're the only one still dressed," he argues, teeth grazing the shell of Ren's ear.

"And you want me to rectify that?"

"Immediately," Hux agrees and bites down on Ren's earlobe.

His antics earn him a soft grunt and a slap on his ass that has his cock leak precum.

Nonetheless, Ren starts to take off his clothes as requested.

For all of Ren's many shortcomings Hux is pleased to see that his body is every bit as impressive as he has hoped it'd be. Muscular, thick even, but with a softness to it that stands in direct contrast to everything Hux has come to know about him.

"Where did you get these?" he asks, tracing a constellation of scars that run from Ren's throat down to his chest and over his side.

"Disobedience," Ren simply says, offering no further explanation. Hux doesn't press the issue.

"And this one?" he asks instead, indicating the knife wound he himself inflicted on Ren with a tap of his finger. "Will it scar?"

Ren eyes him for a moment, expression unreadable.

"Do you want it to?"

Hux doesn't hesitate.

"Yes."

Ren says no more. Instead, he grabs Hux by his hips and pulls him up, just enough to give Ren enough space to get his pants and underwear out of the way.

"Oh," Hux breathes, shamelessly eyeing Ren's exposed crotch. "Now that's a surprise."

To say Ren is well-endowed would be putting it lightly. He's huge, downright monstrous, and Hux isn't sure if he's up to the particular challenge Ren's cock is posing. Not with how long ago his time was.

Besides, he's not in the habit of keeping vaseline in the living room, limiting all his amorous and masturbatory exploits to the bed-- and bathroom. And he has no intention of showing Ren more of his flat than absolutely necessary.

There are other things that can be done with such an impressive specimen, things that don't require them to leave the living room at all.

"I want to suck your cock," Hux tells Ren matter-of-factly, eyes firmly fixed on the cock in question.

It twitches at Hux's words—a bead of precome collecting at the tip—despite the dry delivery.

"On the couch with you."

Ren is quick to obey, so eager for it he doesn't wait until Hux can slide off his lap before he moves up. He simply grabs Hux with both hands underneath the small globes of his ass and hoists him up, carrying him over to the sofa.

"A warning next time would be appreciated," Hux complains as he slithers out of Ren's hold and slides down his lap, comfortably settling in between his muscular thighs, the long fibres of his fake fur rug tickling his knees.

He doesn't miss how Ren's eyes widen at the subtle insinuation that they might make this a repeat performance, should Ren succeed in satisfying Hux's admittedly rather specific needs.

"You look good like this," Ren mumbles, one hand reaching out to touch Hux's by now dishevelled hair.

He hesitates in the last moment, stopping himself just before making contact and so it is on Hux to lean up and close the distance between them, pressing his head against Ren's open palm.

Understanding it as the permission it was intended to be, Ren tightens his grip, pulling on the bright strands of hair and eliciting a sharp hiss from Hux.

"You mean with me kneeling to your feet and about to swallow your cock?" Hux asks in return.

Ren gives him a smug smile.

"Exactly."

Hux digs his nails into Ren's thighs in retaliation.

"Brat," he accuses him and sucks the tip of his hard cock into his mouth.

Ren jumps in his spot, cursing colourfully underneath his breath.

If not for his honed reflexes then Hux is sure he wouldn't have managed to pull back quickly enough to keep himself from getting choked. Who would have thought his acquired skills as a hitman would, one day, save him from suffocating on an overly large cock?

"Have some self-control," he scolds as he curls three fingers around the base of Ren's erection, pinky out.

In addition to being overly large, Ren is also quite thick, making it near impossible for Hux to swallow his length completely. There's no doubt in his mind that he'll leave this encounter with a locked jaw.

It's a price he's willing to pay for the pleasure of seeing Ren come so beautifully undone.

Already, he's panting, the muscles in his thighs twitching underneath Hux's hands whenever he presses his tongue against the vein running along the underside of Ren's cock.

"Hux," Ren mumbles, caught halfway in between trying to order Hux around and simply beg him.

It's downright adorable. The way he thinks he holds all the reigns only because it's Hux down on his knees and with Ren's dick stuffing his mouth.

Careful not to cause any lasting damage, Hux runs his teeth down the impressive length in a silent warning.

Ren stills, his eyes widening in understanding when Hux throws him a pointed look from underneath pale eyelashes.

So he is capable of following implicit commands, Hux muses and promptly rewards him by sucking down as much of his leaking length as he can manage.

Just as suspected, trying to swallow him down completely a second time doesn't yield any better results, despite Hux's best efforts. Not an entirely unexpected outcome but disappointing nonetheless.

Breathing harshly through his nose, Hux grabs the base of Ren's cock a little tighter and starts to jerk him in rhythm with the up and down of his head.

Judging from Ren's strained whimpers and the occasional swearing, it's very much appreciated.

There's no doubt that he won't last much longer. Hux may be somewhat out of practise but he still knows his way around a cock, his inherent need to always be the best at what he does providing more than enough motivation.

Spit and precome is running down his chin, dripping onto Ren's balls and the sofa cushions.

Hux couldn't care less, not with the way Ren is shivering underneath him, his whole body drawn tight, his cock twitching with the first forebearings of his approaching orgasm.

Hux growls and, willing his throat to relax, takes Ren as deeply as possible.

The bitter taste of come floods his throat and almost has him gagging. When Hux is trying to pull away, both of Ren's hands tighten in his hair and keep him in place. He's coming still, the last ropes of come painting Hux’s cheek and chin when he finally succeeds in breaking free.

"Asshole," Hux grumbles, voice raw.

Ren doesn't pay him any mind. With his cock giving a last twitch he slumps back into his spot on the sofa, face slack with bliss.

Hux on the other hand can't quite share Ren's complacence. He's still hard, his own erection having remained woefully neglected and in dire need of some attention.

"You think this is over?" he bristles, already climbing back into Ren's lap.

Ren opens his eyes slowly, lashes fluttering when Hux presses his cock against the hard planes of his stomach.

"What do you want me to do?" he asks, catching Hux off-guard with this unexpected compliance.

"I might have an idea," Hux tells him, offering only a sharp smile in explanation when Ren curls an inquisitive brow at him.

Without any more warning, he pushes Ren down and into the sofa cushions until he is lying flat on his back.

"And now," Hux intones while making himself comfortable on Ren's chest, hands on his thick thighs to steady himself, "you will eat me out."

He lifts his hips, wiggling his ass a little to entice Ren, even though he's sure his instructions have been clear enough.

And yet, Ren hesitates.

"Oh," he whispers, voice rough in the aftermath of his climax, "you're all smooth."

Hux doesn't get an opportunity to snap at him. Before he can mock Ren for pointing out the obvious, there are broad hands on him that waste no time to spread his cheeks and expose his hole to the slightly chilly air.

"Here as well," Ren remarks, his warm breath ghosting over the sensitive furls of skin, suddenly so much closer than before.

"It's called grooming," Hux pants, tone nowhere near as sharp as intended. "You should try it some time."

Ren chuckles and bites the junction where Hux’s thigh meets the curve of his ass.

"You like me like this," he mumbles and buries his face between the smooth cheeks of Hux’s ass.

"Bloody hell!"

If not for Ren's hands firmly holding him in place, Hux would have slid off his lap.

It doesn’t deter Ren, who has started to lick long, wet stripes from Hux's sack, over his perineum and up his hole. As everything else about him, his tongue proves to be outrageously large.

"You like that?" Ren asks in between two swipes, pressing a soft kiss to the small of Hux’s back. "My tongue inside your ass?"

Typically Ren. In constant need of validation.

Though Hux can't deny that while he lacks refinement, Ren is more than making up for it with his unbridled enthusiasm.

"Gods, yes," Hux hisses at another swipe of Ren's tongue, unable to hold his own. "Though it's not inside me yet, is it?"

Ren is quick to correct that mistake.

Hux is not one to be overly vocal in bed, A pleased little moan at best, maybe a gasp, is usually all his partners can coax out of him. Much more common is it for him to offer precise instructions on how to increase his pleasure. Praise, he never doles out

But Ren, with his tongue thrusting in and out of Hux, draws moan after moan out of him. He moves with neither rhythm nor finesse, all but devouring him, and yet it has him keening, pushing back into the wet press of Ren’s tongue like a common whore.

"Fuck!" Hux cusses.

His vulgarity is rewarded with a finger wiggling its way inside him, right alongside that infernal tongue.

It stings despite the thin coat of saliva covering the digit and Hux would have complained if only Ren hadn't found his prostate in that precise moment.

All too soon he's reduced to whimpering mess, clinging onto Ren as if for dear life.

He comes with a scream and Ren's name on his lips, all over Ren's thighs and cock, pearls of come clinging to the wild, pubic hair.

For a moment, nothing but white hot bliss surges through him, his body light and untethered. He's shivering all over, his sopping wet whole twitching around the finger Ren has yet to pull out.

Hux slumps forward, not caring for the sticky mess he's creating. He doesn't protest when Ren pulls out of him, nor does he resist him when he grabs him by the hips and maneuvers his exhausted body around as he pleases.

"What are you doing?" he mumbles when Ren slides an arm beneath the bend of his knees.

"Where's your bedroom?" Ren asks, not paying Hux's confusion any mind.

"I'm not going to show you my bedroom. You can take your clothes and—"

"Shut up," Ren grumbles and hoists Hux up. He carries him through his own flat like a damsel in distress and poking his head into every room under Hux's weak protests until he finds the one he’s looking for.

"Charming," he says, taking in the spartan bedroom.

Hux is unceremoniously dumped on the freshly laundered sheets, bouncing a little on the mattress. Ren doesn't waste any time before joining him on the bed, getting sweat and come everywhere.

"I'm going to kill you in your sleep," Hux tells him. Though, at the moment, he’s admittedly too fucked out to immediately act on his promise.

Ren is not at all concerned. "You can try," he mumbles into one of the many pillows Hux keeps, already on the edge of sleep.

Struck speechless by the man's endless insolence but too exhausted to do anything about it, Hux is left with nothing else to do but stare at him.

He would like to be angrier, would like to be mad with rage, incensed enough to be able to summon the energy to reach under his pillow and cut through Ren's throat with the knife hidden there. But all his irritation is slowly fading away when the all-encompassing satisfaction and contentment of a recent orgasm settles in his bones.

And so he fails miserably. The siren song of oblivion is too sweet a temptation to resist and Ren’s broad chest makes a surprisingly comfortable pillow. Hux drifts off to sleep with the distinctive smell of Ren's sweat wafting up his nose and his heavy arm curled around his waist.

There's always the next day, he assures himself and ignores the insistent voice in the back of his head laughing at him, somehow sounding just like his father’s.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Hux awakens at six o'clock in the morning, as is his custom.

The first thing he notices is that he's not alone. Ren is pressed to his side, one arm haphazardly thrown over Hux's chest, making it difficult for him to breathe.

It's not what Hux would have expected. Ren didn't strike him as the particularly affectionate type or the type to stay after the deed was done.

All the more surprising is it then to see him curled up next to him like this then. His legs are tangled up in the 400 thread-count, Tencel fabric blankets and the curtain of his black hair is obscuring most of his face.

Unlike Hux, he's still fast asleep with not a care in the world. His breathing doesn't hitch once, not even when Hux reaches out to shame him awake.

At least that has been his intention, right up until the moment his fingers brush a loose strand of hair and instead of rousing Ren from sleep, Hux finds himself tucking the rebellious lock back behind Ren's ear.

He looks remarkably young like this, innocent even, laughable as that thought may be.

In the dim hours of the morning, with not another soul awake and the line between dream and reality blurring, it's easier to admit that Ren is indeed magnificent.

The things he could achieve with somebody like Ren at his side. Hux's mouth waters at the sheer endless possibilities.

Too caught up in fantasies of glory and power, he doesn't notice Ren's awakening until he shifts on the bed and Hux's hand, still curled in Ren's hair, falls away.

"I'm still alive," Ren remarks casually.

"Nothing that can't be remedied," Hux tells him with no real heat behind his words.

It's a truce they've struck, not so much with words but with acts, and Hux isn't particularly eager to break this fragile peace between them just yet. After all, he has plans.

Ren gives a shrug, recognising Hux's words as the empty threat they are.

"You need me," he says with a big yawn and before Hux can argue, adds: "And I need you. At least for now. We can go back to trying to kill each other once your father and my master are out of the way."

He stretches, the muscles in his arms bulging as he draws them up over his head.

Magnificent indeed, Hux thinks as he watches the shameless display with keen interest.

Hux would like to ask why Ren wants to kill the man he has betrayed his family for, his politician mother and redeemed scoundrel father. The bruises that have yet to heal give him an idea but surely there must be more to it than that.

"Don't," Ren says, interrupting Hux's musings.

"Don't what?" Hux asks, surprised to see a plea shining in Ren's brown eyes, though barely there, only noticeable due to their proximity.

"Don't ask what you want to ask,” he whispers and then falls silent.

It stretches on, not quite peaceful but neither unpleasant, with both of them staring at the other, unblinking and waiting.

"Fine," Hux concedes at last, closing his dry eyes for a moment before he fixes Ren with a piercing glare. "But I will get my answers, sooner or later."

Ren nods gravely, dramatic for drama's sake, and Hux drops the issue.

There are other things one can do in bed but lay bare one's deepest, darkest secrets.

Hux flips back the sheets and swings one leg over Ren and settles comfortably in his naked lap.

"There's vaseline in the bedside drawer," he explains when Ren raises a quizzical brow at him.

Despite Hux's constant claims of Ren being an imbecile, he does catch on surprisingly fast.

He turns—always keeping one hand on Hux's skinny waist to prevent him from losing his balance—and blindly rummages around in the aforementioned drawer.

After some searching, he pulls back with a triumphant little huff, raising the small jar of vaseline in the air like a prized treasure.

It looks tiny in his massive paw and Hux's shivers at the memory of those fingers inside him.

His body has not forgotten it either and already he can feel himself grow hard.

Ren isn't much better off and Hux laughs, a sharp sound cutting through the lazy morning haze, as he rubs his ass against the erection underneath him.

"First you'll fuck me with that ridiculous cock of yours and then we'll talk business. Deal?"

Ren growls, his hips bucking up into Hux’s.

"Deal."

Pleased, Hux slides his hands up Ren’s chest and to his face, momentarily halting at his neck to tighten his grip and make Ren gasp for air.

Hux silences any eventual protests with a kiss, sealing the deal with teeth and tongue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> I can't believe it's over! Time surely flies!
> 
> Please don't hesitate to leave a comment and tell us what you thought!


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